BWV: 267 "Once More Unto The Breach."

Amor Fati, Memento Fati....

The bootless cries of a man against his destiny, and other such, the theme of failure as a watchword of the day, leading into the big anniversary tomorrow, Teresa Du'Tres and Felonge De Castille.

but a poor player that struts and frets its hour upon the stage....

Cutting through a sort of melange of stuff, minutia, a sort of "virtue", a sharpened tendril of impetus cavorting and gnawing into the fiber moral, temporal, and so forth, having at the gutty works, and getting chased away like a beggar.

A kind of "honed edge" which meets the material that are put to it, such is to exercise a kind of superlative in a world of flats, but sharps in a room filled with weather balloons.

A kind of prolonged lukewarm birthday party for Kevin.

Out out brief candle...

Wee.

In the dominion of the static universe, perhaps I somewhat floated, or lensed as to have specific gravity, I sat like a lump of iron or a millstone, but all the way, the objectives and terabytes coursed through the thinkgood, the brainmeats, the very core of the nut, as it were, and thoughts and ideas, most insensate and ephemeral danced like sugar plums in my head.

All the while, tomorrow, another catcher in the sawgrass, something wicked this way, and various things leaping and cajoling about the various schedule apparatus, all sorts of bs scattering about, as if to be broadcast over a field, waves and waves of it to change the color of the leaves or freeze the mud puddles, or induce Mike Pence to go scurrying along.

There was a kind of trap door, where the hunter sleeps along the bottom of the aquarium, and he patiently waits for the lapse of attention from his prey, for which he pounce at the given opportunity afforded his leisure and guile: neigh, that's what it was, things floating about, an obscure flavored cigar of leisure and guile, and the smoke of that, a kind of rotary output, torque, measurable by machine.

I need to be much more specific about the output of my hobbies, I suppose, but a bit of art, flourish or flair, perhaps is the least indignity done to my little works, and that only showing indignity in the slightest backhanded sense, as if to blame me for the faults of others.

This is what I tell them of a role model: they make a mistake and blame it on the example of their idol, their icon, their stub toe pookah.  Blame that one, for all the good such does.

Thou spark more of a morsel of undigested beef than of grave soil and charnal wounds, I wot...

I have to decide too, when flaws should be changed, or whether that's sort of the paraphernalia of character traits, real identifiable markings and such.  I cannot afford time-wise too disassemble myself everyday for some obscure arcane cleaning procedure, but perhaps just to dryfire the workings to see if the hammer and pin does what it should; but nevertheless I afford myself the opportunity to realize that I am here.

Mansour Mon Ami and Bernadette Farthing.